Jake set off again. ‘You know any more about her? She ever mention some money she had? Remember that night she came back, when she said she’d fallen? She had a lot of money on her then.’
Rosie looked out of the window. ‘She told me she sold off some things a friend was keeping for her. Jake, I think I’m gonna ask her to leave. There’s something about her — I dunno, but she’s...’
‘Tough?’ said Jake.
‘Yes, with a selfish streak, too. I mean, I kind of admire the way she’s getting herself together but I know as much about her now as I did when I first met her. Sometimes I get the feeling she doesn’t want anyone to know her.’
‘That cop knew her. He knew her very well.’
Rooney pulled on the handbrake outside Bean’s apartment. ‘She was picked up for prostitution. Last they put her in a straitjacket, she was that crazy.’
Bean had his hand on the door handle. ‘She looked straightened out tonight.’
Rooney nodded. ‘Yeah, she sure as hell did. Mind you, I didn’t get that close a view, but she was one hell of a looker back then — never fooled around, well, not that I knew of. I think she even had a couple of kids, married a lawyer, but whatever she was, she blew it. That lady sure as hell hit the skids.’
Bean opened the door. He was barely interested in ex-Lieutenant Lorraine Page, but Rooney seemed eager to continue. ‘Killed an unarmed kid.’ He shook his head. ‘Six bullets, emptied the fucking .38 into him — and you know what sickened me? She was laughing, no kidding, meant fuck all to her. She was pissed — she was a lush. I kinda thought she must be dead by now...’
‘Goodnight,’ said Bean, stepping out of the car.
Rooney remained deep in thought. He could still picture her curled up on the washroom floor, skirt up round her thighs. That was the last time he’d seen her, so drunk she couldn’t even stand. That half-smile on her face had been the same half-smile she had given him tonight.
Lorraine looked round Nula’s strange apartment with its outrageously theatrical living room: drapes and frills, mock leopardskin sofa and chairs, fur rugs, and huge paintings of nude female couples with male genitals displayed in semi-grotesque poses. Just as she was wondering idly if Nula and Didi had been totally transformed or if they still had their cocks, Nula came out of the bedroom. ‘Something terrible happened to a friend of ours.’
A limping, red-eyed Didi appeared, dressed in a scarlet silk kimono, a clutch of tissues in her hand. ‘She was a friend, only seventeen. They found her locked in the trunk of a car. She’d been hammered to death, not a feature left intact, dear... Now what pig-shit bastard could do a thing like that?’
Nula sobbed loudly. ‘We saw her last night — I was standing talking to her. Holly was so cute, so nice...’
Lorraine listened as they wept and wailed. She didn’t know who they were talking about. She tried twice to interject and ask if they’d like her to leave, but they seemed unaware she was in the apartment. Of the two Didi seemed more upset, and it was Nula who eventually turned to Lorraine. ‘I’m glad you’re here, help take our minds off it, she was only a kid... Didi, we gotta keep busy. Let’s feed this babe — come on, get that apron on.’
Didi scurried into the kitchen, and Nula sighed. ‘She’ll be okay now. She’s really upset, but I can always cheer her up.’
They cooked a delicious dinner, and the initial shock of Holly’s death subsided. Their conversation centred on their friend Art: that he was a genius photographer, his boyfriends, his bankruptcy, his inability to stay in business.
Nula gestured to their apartment. ‘This was his, then he made a stack of bread and he gave this to us and even when he’s been broke and desperate, he has never asked us to leave.’
Lorraine nodded. The place was a nightmare, but that was just her taste, and she was enjoying the outrageousness of the pair, swapping stories, jokes, about old times when they’d been dancers. They didn’t speak of the present, but out came albums and programmes. Eventually they seemed to talk themselves into silence. The subtle music, playing throughout, was switched off, and Lorraine took her cue to leave. She stood up, smiling her thanks.
‘How long have you been dry?’ asked Nula.
‘’Bout four and a half months.’ Nula laughed and told Lorraine that she had been dry eight years, Didi four. She looked at Didi, and then pursed her lips. ‘I suppose we should tell you we’re whores — you’ve probably put two and two together anyway. It’s just that we’d prefer you to hear it from us rather than anyone else — and we’d like to see you again.’
Lorraine was taken aback when Nula, sitting close, slipped an arm around her shoulders. She was wearing a heavy scent and, close to, it was overpowering.
‘Listen, I got contacts who could put some work your way, straight decent johns, all you gotta do is ask.’
Lorraine did a neat sidestep, saying that she had some work lined up, thanked them again, and they insisted she take a cab home. She hadn’t meant to sound so cool, be so distant, but they were touching on that hazy part of her life that remained unreal, which she hadn’t yet faced up to. At the same time, she couldn’t help but feel angry that they seemed to know she’d been a hooker. Somehow she had felt that no one could or would suspect that.
Nula kissed her cheeks. ‘You come by any time and, keep it in mind, if you need cash to tide you over, we can always get you a few clients.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
Lorraine was relieved to get away from them, from the cloying perfume. Yet they had, unknowingly, helped her over a hurdle she had dreaded. Seeing Bill Rooney again had been like a punch in the stomach, so totally unexpected that she had been unable to speak, or even acknowledge him. The humiliation of the meeting made her feel physically sick. The cab fare took the last of her earnings from the gallery but she didn’t care. One thing she knew for certain, she couldn’t turn tricks again.
Each step up to Rosie’s apartment was an effort, and the last person she wanted to be confronted by was Rosie sitting like a Buddha watching a mind-numbing game show. Lorraine shut the door and headed for the bathroom. The television was clicked off, ominously.
‘We got to talk.’
Lorraine hesitated. ‘Yes, I know, but I need a shower first.’ The television clicked back on. When she returned to the sitting room, wrapped in just a towel, off went the television. ‘Just let me get a drink.’ Lorraine slammed the fridge shut. It was empty. ‘Thanks! Thanks a fuckin’ bundle!’
Rosie smirked. ‘Now you know what it feels like!’
‘So you did it on purpose? You great fat pig, I bought enough to last days—’
‘Oh, yeah!’ Rosie sniggered. ‘Well, who the hell do you think has been filling up that fucking fridge since you arrived?’
Lorraine turned on her. ‘Jesus Christ, I’ve given you money!’
Rosie pulled herself up. ‘An’ I gave you a roof over your head, and my bed when you were sick. I fed you, washed you — and not once did you have the decency to say thank you!’
‘So now you want me out of here, is that it?’ Lorraine sighed.
‘Why don’t you get off your high horse and be real?’ Rosie retaliated. ‘I’m honest with you, when are you going to level with me?’
‘Level with you about what?’
‘Who you are for starters!’ Rosie shouted.
Lorraine lifted her arms in exasperation. ‘You know who I am! I’ve fucking told you who I am! I am Lorraine Page!’